Seeking
by Spyrkle10
Summary: Also posted on AO3. There's an immortal named Pandora who dances at a different bar every night with a different name, but the same beautiful appearance and flawless dancing skills. This changes the world, but no one will ever know. (Pandora starts coping with dancing instead of pranks)


She loves to dance. She also loves the taste of alcohol on her tongue - sometimes sweet, sometimes burning, sometimes so painful her eyes water – it's all impossibly wonderful, impossibly able to help her forget. She loves the lights, from the cheap, overdone ones to the softer, more tasteful setups at places where the floor is real wood and you can smell the patrons' money. The food is cheap, expensive, fried, dry, a multitude of things at an innumerable amount of places. She adores it all, even when she's only hired to dance for just an hour. Even when she's hired to dance for an entire night. Even when she isn't hired at all, and dances for loose change outside… she loves it.

"How long will you be working?" The bar managers say with sighs, already expecting her to decline more than a few hours of work, expecting to have to hire another dancer to take her place and bring them twice the hassle.

"All night," she says with smiles that consume her face, her legs and arms wrapped in fishnet. "Pay me what my performance merits."

And so she dances all night, and they pay her as they wish. This is the way of things, as she loses herself again and again in her hypnotic, endless dance, a different routine every hour. She dances sensuously at times, her movements slow and hypnotic and her breath steady and sweet. She dances wildly at others, moving her body to some unknown rhythm, as if she could dance out of her own skin if she moved fast enough, if she used up every molecule of air in her body. The audience waits as she pants for breath, muscles clenching and tightening as they pray that she moves once more, that the beautiful dancer's performance never ends. She grants their wish every time, her body easing back into the motions.

She learned to dance from thousands upon thousands of hours of practice. Every style of dance has long been mastered by her, and yet she continues to hone her art every night she can. Sometimes she even manages to be hired for a low-budget production's last minute replacement, and even as an ensemble member, every eye is upon her at once. Her beauty, her elegance, the smooth polish of her act, shine an impossibly bright light upon her. She smiles, her sharp teeth hidden, every time, no matter the place. She's too flighty to dance in a proper production, unable to commit to the same dance night after night, but she still loves the stage the same as any bar or club.

No matter what attire she is asked to wear, no matter what dance she performs, the dance of love is her one restriction. The moment a hand reaches out to caress her tanned skin, to feel the softness of her body, she jerks away, turning even her blatant refusal into a component of her dance. Her lips curl into a frown, and her cobalt blue eyes memorize the offender's face. It's an odd contradiction to her observers; they wonder why it is so, even when she wears nothing but thin cloth and dangling false gold, or her movements are charged with the tension of desire. But it is a small price to pay, restraining from the tactile sensation of a woman, to see that woman dance.

As time passes, she passes the realm of obscurity and becomes an urban legend. Her face remains the same even as her names do not, and so bar managers light up at the sight of her face, happy to hire someone who could be the fabled dancer. People try to predict her and where she will next appear, but they are unable. As technology progresses, it becomes clear to them that she is an impossible woman, able to cross the sea in just a day, able to never age. However, there are always skeptics, always the tantalizing desire to see her dance just one more time, and so she is unimpeded by such scrutiny. They call her "Mercury Star," for her dancing prowess and her personality – a woman who teases and tricks, from her conversation to her dancing to her mystery. Someone tells her of her title, and she laughs so hard tears slip down her cheeks as she claps her hands with glee.

She's dancing in an old-fashioned bar one Saturday night in February when an older gentleman with black hair and a cane walks in. Her eyes are only for her attentive audience, and so she doesn't notice. It's a slow, nostalgic song, her body moving freely to it as her lips twitch, eager to mouth the words. Her dress tonight is tight and glitters, catching the soft light and the gazes of many. A pendant on her neck bears the same jewel as her unworn cloak's clasp. The song slowly comes to a close.

"Heidi, take a break for a few minutes, if you can… Sorry about this, but the jazz band we hired for tonight would like to play one song without a 'dancer distracting our listeners'. It's a shame that a dancer of your caliber has to stop, though," the bartender tells her.

"I don't mind, just for a few minutes. A bottle of vodka, please? And a glass." As she moves from the stage to the bar, her audience sighs, some muttering about losing their chance to see the 'Mercury Star' dance until the sun rises. The bartender hurries to fulfill her order.

"What are you doing here?" The voice is familiar, but something she can't quite place until –

"I could ask the same of you, Adrian," she says. If she were a mortal, if she had a heart, it would be beating as fast as a bird's. The bottle of vodka and her glass arrives.  
"On the house, for your incredible performance," the bartender assures her. "I never thought I'd see the Mercury Star in person."

It's suddenly too much. The praise for her meager skills, the alcohol, the title, it's too much in front of his judging eyes, his unexpected presence. She is not ashamed, but she knows he will not understand, and she doesn't want to face him. She says nothing, and rushes onto the stage the moment the song ends. Her dance is fierce, energetic, taking all her energy and worries away, taking over every inch of her body as she simply _moves_. She cannot communicate with words, but this will be enough. Her eyes do not leave her son's for one moment as she confronts him with her truth, dancing until the last customer shuffles out after hours of watching and she, too, is asked to leave and escorted out with a stack of bills in her hands.

The door closes, and she turns to face him. She feels alive, even though her body is sweaty and exhausted. "It helps. The dancing, the alcohol, it helps." This is her explanation to a stern, weary man, whose disguise melts away to reveal his youth.

"You dance in bars and drink high proof alcohol for amusement, and then you criticize me?" He demands. He remembers their last meeting 14 years ago, the fight they had, and she flinches as she remembers the trial she has set for him, the man named Abraham who she knows will come to kill an innocent girl.

"Would you rather I slaughter criminals for amusement, son?" She asks with a sigh. She shouldn't have tried her luck, dancing in a town near Moperville. "I can defend myself, and there is never any lasting damage from substance or exercise. Why is this such a problem for you?"

He sighs and turns away, unable to describe his frustration, unable to put his abhorrence for her way of life into words. "It's a waste," he feebly tries. And he walks away. Pandora doesn't stop him.

Her dancing becomes desperate. It loses the warmth of settled routine and gains the sharp edge of searching, of need, of want. People watch with tears in their eyes and a hollow in their hearts, somehow pained despite the newfound angle of the Mercury Star's performance. She takes men by the hand and playfully teases them with a dance, leaning in close to their warmth and burying her tears with their touch. In online forums, her fans worry for their idol and bring her offerings of food, self-help books, coupons for local therapy offices. She smiles at their gifts, but brushes many of them aside.  
She doesn't understand herself. She doesn't understand why she makes sure Abraham is caught before he even arrives in Moperville, makes sure he is questioned as to his past actions and present intentions. She doesn't understand her desire to dance, her desire to lose herself endlessly within the lit world of the bar and the pleasure of alcohol – the former is impossible to ignore, the latter is an indulgence only possible due to her existence as an immortal. If there is one benefit to being unable to assist her son, to being unable to avenge her husband directly, it is this, and so she relishes it whenever she can.

Blaike had always loved to watch her dance, she muses. Maybe that's why – of course it isn't. She dances for herself, not for those who watch. It had always been so. What did it matter if Adrian knew, if Adrian disapproved? She would still protect him. Her dancing centered her and gave her the calm to do that. She was not in the wrong, she was not a criminal…

The Mercury Star slowly returned to her prior routine, and no longer accepted offers to dance with others. Her passion remained, but her desperation faded. Her previous dancing partners were satisfied with this development, as she had never truly been looking "at them". And so time passed.

When a pithos was discovered on a medallion used to control a shut-in, Adrian sighed and wondered if his words had brought about the attack, his mind conflicted.

She dances every night, her smile wide and satisfied. With every step, she builds her confidence and her argument for the next time she meets her son. She is inspired to dance more by the smiles of her audience, whether she sees men or women or even children brought along to meet friends. Adrian had motivated her to think about her actions at last, and so she determined that just as Blaike saved people from danger, she will aspire to save them from their sorrows for just one moment, just as dancing does so for her.

An immortal named Voltaire throws up his hands in defeat, his only plan a complicated mess. However, it is all he has, and so he begins his work…

It is a twisted coincidence that on a fated Friday night, Pandora decides to watch over Susan in case Jerry – well, Zeus – decides to act unwisely after the warning she gave him. When aberrations attack, instead of running to fetch her son, she simply _acts_ , unable to fathom that he could help, that he would help. Even as he rushes to the defense due to the noise, she obliterates all the aberrations in the area with her magic, sealing her fate.

"Mother, you…" He is shocked. No, he is beyond shocked – horrified.

"I found meaning in dancing, Adrian. I was able to make so many smile…" Tears fall from her eyes. "I'm sorry that I was unable to be someone that you could be proud of, that I'll no longer and never was there for you," She hugs him tightly, whispering such words in his ears.

"No… I should be the one apologizing," he chokes out. His constant, even if she was dangerous and obsessive, is about to be lost forever. "For always doubting you, and never appreciating what I have." And so Pandora dissolved into nothing, and ceased to exist forever.

She was dancing under colorful lights, her heart beating fast within her chest as her bare feet pushed against the floor to bring her body into the air, twisting into a landing, turning as the music went on. "The Mercury Star is an unsolvable mystery… I wonder how a fairy managed it?" A soft mutter amidst a crowd worshiping their eternal, unchanging idol.


End file.
